PTB's Writing Challenge 2013
by xsecretxkeeperx
Summary: By the end of 2013, this will be a collection of 52 one-shots (some interconnected, some stand-alone) based on prompts given every week of this year. So far, my fandoms include: Harry Potter, Original Fiction, Avatar: The Last Airbender. Ratings and genres range the spectrum.
1. Harry Potter I

**A/N:** I am participating in Project Team Beta's massively awesome Writing Challenge 2013. Woot! All prompts will be revealed at the end of each chapter, and if you'd like to learn more about the contest, the link will be on my profile (because FFn is ridiculous and won't even let me write the word "dot").

The first chapter is a bit of a scary coming-of-age event set in everyone's favorite wizarding world. I hope you enjoy.

_**Disclaimer**__**:**__ All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended._

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**Challenge 01: Rocky Horizons  
**Posted 01/6/2013

_Fandom:_ Harry Potter  
_Rating:_ T  
_Genre:_ AU  
_Content Descriptors:_ Drama, Romance, Teen  
_Characters:_ Draco/Hermione

* * *

Everything is perfect. Candles float idly above our heads, an enchanted radio is playing one of my favorite wizard love songs, and there's a sweet aftertaste on my tongue from the chocolate frogs and champagne. I'm still not sure how Draco conned a bottle away from the house elves, but he has held nothing back. Everything is perfect, I tell myself again. Then why is my stomach tied up in knots?

We're lounging across the pillows and blankets he has laid out on the classroom floor, kissing and nipping slowly as his hands explore my body with determination. All his pleading and pushing, not-quite-patiently waiting for me to be ready, has led to this moment. Draco wants to take my virginity and I've promised to let him.

I bite my lip and groan as his move to suck on my throat. It's not that I don't want Draco in the same way he wants me, it's only… couldn't we wait a bit longer? I do want him to make love to me eventually, but I like the kissing and the way his fingers play. It never sat well with me that what we had was never enough for him.

"You taste delicious," he whispers in my ear. It makes me squirm in a really wonderful way, but the feeling is tempered when begins removing my robes. "You're going to feel just as good, I know it."

I might, but he won't. He will hurt. Doesn't he care at all that I'm not comfortable going that far? I think, perhaps, I should stop this and be honest with him. I should tell him I'm not ready, that I don't want this yet, that it will ruin what we have and we will never be the same. I tug him back to my lips and distract my tongue with his to stop myself from speaking my fears. That's all it is—fear. Afterward, I will glow, and everything will be glorious. I've read about it in many books.

With my acquiescence come Draco's undulating hips. The only things stopping him from taking what he wants are our underclothes, and a new sensation adds itself to the knots as our speed increases and our breaths turn to pants and gasps of pleasure. I'm familiar with this feeling, though I have never been quite so conflicted about it before. Every time Draco drops his fingers below my waistline, he sets my world on fire and then cools me with his sweet words and sweeter kisses. The fire is here, burning me and exciting me, but I am leaden, unable to either escape the flames or enjoy them.

Draco grunts and slowly pulls away, smirking down at me over a heaving chest. "We've got to get you out of these," he says, playfully snapping the lace hiding my most private parts.

I don't want to! my mind screams as my fingers help to slide the flimsy coverings away from my body. Draco stares at me for a long while, swallowing and licking his lips.

"Damn, you're sexy," he says, and I smile in spite of myself. I love how honest he is, never coating his words with flowers and honey, only ever saying what he truly thinks.

He drops his pants and orders me lie back. Looking at him hovering above me, everything on display…. He's beautiful. I should want this. I want to want this, so much so that I'm willing to lock away my logical mind for the first time in my life and focus strictly on the sensations of my body. It's a hard thing.

We kiss once more, languid yet intense, while Draco brushes his fingers back and forth across my stomach, easing them lower as the seconds pass. This part is nothing new, though my robes had most assuredly been _on_ before tonight. Draco knows exactly which buttons to press and when to press them, and soon I am flying, trying to muffle my cries but not quite managing. Draco's smile is cocky and prideful, mixing attractively with the excitement and love in his eyes. I should want this. I should….

His next kiss is hard but chaste as he positions himself between my legs. "Are you ready? Did you do the spell?" he asks, biting and sucking down my neck to my breast. It's hard to concentrate when he does that.

Am I ready? No. No, I'm not ready at all. I've told him a million times, out by the lake, in dusty broom closets—I'm not ready. He thought all I needed was a bit of romance, that I didn't want to be cramped or come upon by others. And he was right, to an extent. I certainly did not want my first time to be in a broom closet. I don't want my first time to be now, either, though. The room is beautiful and he is beautiful and everything is absolute perfection, but I don't want to do this.

I'm on the edge of a cliff being pulled in two directions. From the watery depths below I hear Draco's bewitching voice calling to me, urging me to jump. From behind me, far away from the rocky ledge, is a little girl in muggle clothes with a muggle doll and an innocent smile, reaching out a hand for me to come toward her. She is me, as a child. Draco is everything I want but am not yet ready for. The girl is everything I know but am ready to leave behind. There is no in between. I must choose, despite my fear, despite my desire, and despite my comfort.

If I step forward, I will forsake my innocence and give up my girlhood for something I cannot see and do not know if I will like or understand. Below the endless blue waves could be vibrant and magical, teeming with sparkling hopes and dreams; or it could be dark, cold, and lonely, a mistake I will always wish to reverse.

If I step back, I will lose sight of the powerful sea, and oh, what a lovely sea it is. I will be embraced by the feelings and actions I've known all my life, never moving, never changing. I will be stagnant, but secure, and I will never know the sea's passionate embrace.

Draco's eyes are soft, but they gleam with anticipation. He has wanted this for so long. My body trembles, but I know which direction I will step.

I answer his second question: Did I perform the spell to prevent pregnancy?

"Yes," I say, and I jump.

* * *

**A/N: **This is not meant to be sexy or encourage teens to have sex before they are ready, but I wanted to depict what so many girls go through: the pressure and then the giving in. Draco and Hermione may very well end up just fine and live happily ever after. Or they may not. It's up to you to decide.

The prompt this week was a picture of a girl on a cliff. I hope you liked the less-than-literal approach I took. Thanks for reading!


	2. Original Fiction: Bafton, Rishad I

**A/N:** This one is a little different. Firstly, it's not part of a fandom. It comes strictly from my own imagination (and the prompt of course). Secondly, it's not exactly sunshine and rainbows. This is told from the point of view of a psychopath.

_**Disclaimer**__**:**__ All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended._

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**Challenge 02: The Empty Glass  
**Posted 02/23/2013

_Fandom:_ Original Fiction  
_Rating: _T_  
__Genre: _Fiction/Fantasy/AU___  
__Content Descriptors: _Drama, Suspense, Horror_____  
__Characters: _King Rishad/Bafton Kraytor

* * *

Since the beginning of speech and intelligent thought there had been the question of human nature. Some believed children were born inherently good, and then corrupted as outside influences dictated their behavior. Others believed children were inherently wild, that reckless abandon would spawn wickedness and depravity if not tamed. Bafton Kraytor knew the truth.

From a very early age, Bafton saw the differences between himself and his friend Rishad. Bodies thrashing at the end of a noose excited the young man, while Rishad stood stoically, there only because it was required of him. Bafton especially liked it when the convicts gave rousing last words, taunting the people with vivid detail of how they had disposed of their victims. The only indication that Rishad was disgusted was the slight curl of his upper lip and furrowing of his brow. Where Bafton relished the power he felt in making someone cry or piss their pants, Rishad stood up for those weaker than he was. Rishad was a good prince, his people said. He would make a good king.

Because they were so different, Bafton hid his nature from his friend. He knew Rishad would not understand his pleasure at seeing insects smoke and scurry under a piece of glass or how repulsive Bafton found the delusion of the happy little family. He played the good little boy, dutiful son to the King's advisor, and enjoyed his more eccentric pastimes when the Prince was not around to see.

It was a good arrangement, for a while. Bafton could embrace his darker side in the privacy of his mind and his home, and then receive all the rewards a royal friend was entitled. However, Bafton did not count on the ticking of the clock picking away at his patience. It wasn't until he was fully grown that he recognized the resentment that had filled him so slowly over the years. His friendship with the Prince, once rocky but true, was now nothing more than an act.

Bafton played his part exceptionally well. He laughed at Rishad's jokes, never left Rishad's side when the King fell ill and died, and congratulated Rishad at the coronation, all the while contemplating every avenue of retribution he could bestow. Though Bafton would never have thought to act on his sinister plans at the time, each man had his limits, and it was during a conversation where the question of Man's nature was raised that Bafton reached his.

King Rishad was adamant that children were heavenly beings, their innocence destroyed by those speaking the Devil's words.

"A man must work hard to resist those who would tempt him with forbidden fruit," the King said.

It was a hard thing for Bafton to restrain his sneer of disapproval. Rishad would, of course, feel that any man could achieve divine goodness if he only tried. Everything had always come easy for Rishad: hunting, riding, athletics, academia, leadership, and _goodness_. Bafton could never achieve goodness because he was not, and never would be, good. Bafton had been born with evil coursing through his veins, coloring his heart black with feelings of jealousy, anger, a twisted sense of joy.

In a moment of clarity, Bafton knew that he and Rishad should never have been friends, for Rishad was the epitome of Good and Bafton was its antithesis. Children were not inherently good or bad, but each soul was unique unto itself and had a specific role to play in the history of mankind. After years of Bafton's so-called friend enslaving him with expectations he wasn't made to fill, Bafton broke his chains with a determined thought: Rishad was as good as they came, and it was Evil's destiny to snuff out that flame.

. . .

_The man is insufferable_, Bafton thought as Rishad waxed on and on _and on_ about his beloved. It had been nearly a month since Bafton solidified his resolve to murder the King, but it was imperative that every detail be perfectly executed, lest the tragedy be traced back to Bafton and his glory turn short-lived under the sharp edge of the executioner's ax.

"You must meet her, Bafton. She is simply exquisite! I haven't a doubt in my mind she will love you just as I do."

"Very well, Your Majesty. Set the date and I shall happily attend," said Bafton, smiling so that his eyes crinkled at the corners. Rishad's own smile could not possibly grow wider or his face might crack in two.

"I was hoping you would say so," Rishad said. "She's to arrive in less than half an hour to see my garden. You may meet her when she comes."

Bafton allowed himself a roll of his eyes and an exasperated sigh. "Your garden. The lady shall think you strange for your green thumbs. You have servants for such tasks, Your Majesty. I'll never understand your fascination with digging in dirt."

"It's not the dirt, Bafton, though that certainly appeals after the crisp formalities I'm forced to keep. It's the beauty, the colors, the life! Trust me, friend; you want me in my garden. Without it I would find myself in an early grave."

Bafton wanted to laugh. "You think your garden keeps you well?"

"It surely does," Rishad answered with a pointed nod of his head. "Those plants help to keep my sanity. They ground me when I am too high for my own good, they lift me when when my duties have dragged me down, and they calm my temper before reason is lost entirely. Mark my words, Bafton, my strange hobby will save my life!"

The men laughed together, Rishad out of camaraderie and Bafton out of irony and excitement. How appropriate it would be, he thought, should the King fall by the very garden designed to keep him healthy. The gears clicked into place. Care would have to be taken, but Bafton was giddy that his fantasies were finally coming to fruition, and the extra twist of the knife in Rishad's back—using his precious plants to do the deed—was simply too tempting an opportunity to bypass.

"Come," said Rishad, his steps carrying a slight bounce as headed for the corridor. "We mustn't keep Alkessa waiting."

The carriage of Miss Alkessa Faerdoan gleamed under the light of the morning sun as it pulled astride the two men several minutes later. Bafton tried to convince Rishad that a King greeted his guests in the waiting room and not amongst kicked-up dust and debris, but it could not be done. Rishad's eagerness made him utterly impossible to maneuver.

Through the small square window, Bafton could make out a pale face with dainty features and a smile so radiant it threatened to outshine Rishad's. Beneath a fine silk bonnet sprouted escaped strands of blonde hair, no doubt shaken loose by travel. A long neck led the eye to a modest display of cleavage in a dress designed to compliment the lady's coloring and figure. And what a fine figure it was, Bafton thought, as visions of Alkessa writhing beneath him filled his mind. Willing or not, he would have her and deliver yet one more blow to his old friend.

Alkessa nearly leapt out of the carriage once the door was opened, reaching for Rishad's hands and balancing on her toes as if barely restraining herself from falling into his arms. For a long moment, the pair stared and smiled and made Bafton nauseous. Then, Rishad turned and formally introduced the woman he intended to marry.

"It is a pleasure to meet anyone who makes the King as happy as you do, Miss Faerdoan," Bafton said, bowing slightly over Alkessa's hand.

Alkessa curtsied and said, "His Majesty talks most admirably about his oldest and truest friend. I hope we may one day know each other as well as he knows us."

"Plan on it," Bafton said lightly, so as to contradict his dark intentions, and then turned to speak to Rishad. "If you'll excuse me, Your Majesty, there are matters of business to which I must attend, and I am sure my company will be unwelcome before long."

"Nonsense," Rishad said with halfhearted conviction. "But if you must leave…."

Bafton laughed and made his exit, perching himself by the window of an unused bed chamber overlooking the King's garden to observe the would-be lovers. It was improper for an unmarried couple do display ardent emotions, let alone act on them in even the smallest of touches, but it seemed propriety was not a priority for those in love. Rishad was childlike in his explosions of excitement, dragging a laughing Alkessa from plant to plant, explaining with flying gestures what each was for. Occasionally, he would pause, stand close, and trace his fingers delicately across his beloved's face, only to remember himself a moment later and race off to the next species of flower.

When Rishad took both Alkessa's hands and lowered himself to one knee in the center of the garden, Bafton leaned toward the window and growled. He had known, of course, that a proposal was coming, but the King had only been officially courting the girl for a week. It was unheard of! Surely he wouldn't…. But he was. And Bafton's plans would be ruined if the King married before Bafton could carry them out; a queen would never be allowed in his bed. That simply was not acceptable.

Having grown up in the castle and later taking a part in running its affairs, Bafton knew every route to and from every corner. He knew that Rishad would be at mass in the early evening and that no one would be patrolling the corridors surrounding the garden until the King returned. Twilight would provide just enough darkness that should any prying eyes be curious, they would see only a palace official taking a stroll about the flowers.

The plant was easy to find. Its red leaves, usually meant as a warning of danger, acted as a beacon for Bafton's untrained eye. The leaves themselves were not poison, but inside the stalk, like blood pulsing through veins, was glistening, clear sap. Bafton again noticed the irony. This particular flower was a favorite of Rishad's. Not only was it divinely beautiful, but the very juice that would kill a man if ingested could heal even the most stubborn of infections when applied directly. It was the perfect weapon for Bafton and the King.

Next were the kitchens, and those would be more difficult to infiltrate without suspicion. For years, Bafton waited patiently for his opportunity to present itself, for the King's goodness to rot alongside his body. But now, in the eleventh hour, Bafton found his patience had all but disappeared. He would need to wait until tomorrow morning, a mite earlier than he usually checked on the kitchens, and his muscles contracted painfully in protest; his legs thought to carry him there straight away.

A smile crept onto Bafton's face as he remembered a day several weeks prior:

"Disgusting! What is this vitriol?" he had screamed upon spitting a vile concoction onto the floor.

The scullery maid had seemed ready to burst into tears, and Bafton might have enjoyed it had he not been seething over the taste in his mouth. He had been parched, so much so he went directly to the kitchens instead of hoping for a servant's quick return. The cold tea had looked darker than it should, but he had taken a swig anyway.

"It's to promote wellness," the girl had said. "The King— I-I make it s-special— it's meant for h-hih— every afternoon— oh, but I'm so sorry, Mr. Kraytor! I hadn't meant for anyone to try a nip!"

"See that I never lay eyes or tongue on the substance again, you incompetent scab, or I'll sell your service to the laundry house before you so much as blink."

The girl had then run off, and with Bafton's temper ebbing, he had finally been able to take pleasure in her distress.

_To promote wellness in the King, hmmm?_ Bafton was so giddy with delight, sleep avoided him until nearly dawn.

. . .

The bells of the church chimed the hour. It was two past noon—the exact time the scullery maid was to deliver the King his concoction, now with one added ingredient. Bafton wanted to race into the King's chambers and see if his plan had worked, but it would do no good to arrive early. It was as tricky as walking a narrow fence. If he arrived too late, he would miss his chance to gloat, and what was the point if he could not rub Rishad's nose in all he had not seen.

By half past the hour, Bafton knew the time had come. He could wait no longer if he hoped to be there for Rishad's final moments. It would work, he told himself. He had waited so long, planned everything to a tee. He had been rushed, in the end, but no less careful. It had to have worked.

Bafton forced his wringing hands to still as he passed the guards at the end of the corridor. They would be the last he saw until he reached Rishad's chambers; the man liked as much privacy as his position could afford him. If all went to plan, Bafton would see Rishad, say his piece, and then run for help when it was too late. The timing would need to be perfect.

Rishad was slumped in his chair, staring at nothing, but Bafton dared not hope. His friend's lack of response could be merely the effect of a bad day. He would need proof that he had succeeded. He would need…. His eyes darted around the room before landing on a glass.

An empty glass.

_The glass was empty!_

Bafton fell to his knees against the closed door as a long, raucous cackle erupted from his chest to fill the room. Finally, after all the torture the King had put him through, Bafton was the victor and he had never known such elation.

"What in all of God's Kingdom is the matter with you, man?" said Rishad, his brow pulled down in a concerned frown.

"Me?" said Bafton. "Oh, nothing is the matter with _me_, Your Majesty. I'm quite all right. Better than all right. I am triumphant! How are you, Rishad? Are you feeling well?"

"I… I suppose I'm well. What is the meaning of this, Bafton."

"Mm, you don't feel a bit tired?" Bafton rose unsteadily to his feet, his success trembling throughout his body, and stalked closer to Rishad. "How about now? Feeling a tingle through the middle of your tongue?"

"Bafton, what—?"

"My poor King. You didn't see this coming, not from your precious advisor, the man you called Friend. Always seeing the good in those around you. You fool! You take a drink for wellness every afternoon without so much as a second thought as to who has had access to it."

Rishad eyed the empty glass and crumpled back in his chair, realization struggling against hope and denial in his features. "Why?"

"Because I am not like you," Bafton sneered. "Always holding everyone to the highest standards. You make regular men look like heretics and those such as me look like fiends. I am not a monster, Rishad. I am as God made me! And damn you for stifling my nature!

"Do you know how long I have dreamed of this day? You will never again hold me hostage by your virtues, _friend_. And after you die right in front of my eyes, do you know who I will turn to for comfort?"

The color drained from Rishad's face, and Bafton imagined it was partially from the poison and partially from coming to the correct conclusion.

" 'Oh, Alkessa, how could this have happened? He was so young!' And the beautiful, grieving fiancé falls into the arms of the only other person on this earth who understands her pain." Bafton delighted at how stricken Rishad's eyes were as they gazed up at him. "Don't worry, my King. I'll take very good care of your beloved."

"It was for the plant," Rishad whispered, almost rasped.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The treatment you poisoned," he said, rising from his chair (Bafton noted this should have been impossible), "was for my plant, the one I keep in the window. It wasn't doing too well, so I had Miss Conna prepare a special elixir to nurse it back to health."

"For the… plant…."

Bafton's brain moved slowly as Rishad reached for the wire behind his desk and yanked it several times. The wire disappeared through the stone wall and ran the length of the corridor to a bell above the guard station. Bafton should have remembered this detail, though it wouldn't have mattered had Rishad taken the poison; he should have been too weak.

"The concoction was for… the plant." The door crashed open, snapping Bafton to attention as guards surrounded him. He grabbed desperately at any excuse. "Your Majesty, please, forgive me! The Devil manipulated me with whispered words of wrong-doings and the promise of power. I was weak! Please, forgive me!"

"Captain Phars, this man," Rishad paused as if trying to swallow around a hot coal in his throat, "Bafton Kraytor, is hereby charged with the attempted murder of His Majesty the King. He is to be taken to the Pit to await my sentencing. Am I understood?"

If Bafton weren't headed toward the wrong end of a noose, he might have found the pallor of the guards' terrified faces a good laugh. They had failed to protect their king, the fools.

"Your Majesty," said the Captain, punctuating his obedience with a deep bow, fist over heart in a proper salute.

As Bafton was dragged away, screaming for forgiveness but heard by no one, he saw his old friend collapse in the doorway. He found solace in the fact that he had broken the man.

* * *

**A/N:** The prompt this week was "The Empty Glass," as the title suggests. Somewhere within the story, an empty glass needed to be mentioned. This chapter is a bit rough (as I'm thinking most of my chapters will be), but I think it was a successful experiment. I just couldn't be in Bafton's head any longer, haha. Thanks for reading!


	3. Avatar: The Last Airbender I

**A/N:** I saw the word "cabbage" and I couldn't resist. I'm not usually a comedy writer, so if this is lame, I apologize in advance. But I like it, haha. The chapter will refer to some canon events, but my little tale has strayed from canon in a big way to allow for a Zutara pairing.

_**Disclaimer**__**:**__ All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended._

* * *

**Challenge 03: Word Play  
**Posted 02/24/2013

_Fandom:_ Avatar: The Last Airbender  
_Rating:_ K+_  
__Genre:_ AU___  
__Content Descriptors:_ Romance/Friendship_____  
__Characters:_ Zuko/Katara

* * *

The bitter chill in the air complemented Zuko's sour mood, though he thought it better matched Katara's infuriatingly cold shoulder. They had been traveling together for several weeks, along with her friends and brother, and he could get nothing save negative reactions from her. So he had tricked her and killed Aang—the Avatar had lived, hadn't he? It was in the past! Was the self-righteous Water Tribe girl so perfect she had never made a mistake?

_Her hair is perfect_, Zuko thought as he watched her brush a loose strand behind her ear. _And her lips, and skin, and eyes, and…. _The boy sighed and decided to try one more time to get her to notice him with more than unrestrained disdain.

He strolled casually up beside her and kicked the dirt a little with the toe of his boot. "So, I was thinking that once we get to the next city—"

"Not going to happen," Katara said tersely.

"Aargh! Why not?!"

"Why not? _Why not?_" Katara's chest heaved, as the angrier she got the closer to leaned toward Zuko. "You can't seriously tell me you don't know 'Why not?'!"

"Everyone has forgiven me except for you. You are so frustrating!"

"I'm so sorry for the inconvenience," she said, chuckling sarcastically. "It's not like anyone else around here is frustrated by someone who can not take a hint."

"I just want you to like me!"

Despite her anger, and maybe a little because of it, Katara blushed. Taking a modest step back—much to Zuko's displeasure—to reestablish the distance she had lost, she said, "That's never going to happen."

Zuko huffed, his breath creating an angry cloud of steam, and scraped his hands through his hair. "There must be something. What do I have to do to get you on my side?"

As Katara opened her mouth to undoubtedly give him another piece of her mind, Zuko stiffened his spine, readying himself for the blow. It came as a surprise when her narrowed eyes softened, just slightly, into an expression of curious calculation.

"All right," she said. "Go to the top of the mountain and get me the ice flower that grows there."

"You want… flowers?" said Zuko, perplexed. Of all the things he might have guessed, the ridiculously common act of giving a girl flowers was not one of them.

"Flow_er_. As in one. Jeez, I don't want you to ask me out on a date!"

Zuko felt his ears go red and noticed that Katara's cheeks burned bright, as well. He grabbed the back of his neck and turned away.

"Uh, right. Flower. I can do that."

Ten minutes later, not another word having been spoken between the two, Zuko made his way toward the edge of the small mountain village the group was staying in, his pack heavy with the food and water he would need for the short trip.

What was so important about this flower? he wondered. Katara being a water bender, he figured it had something to do with that. Or maybe she was sending him on a wild turtlegoose chase. By the time the village was but a pinprick of light in the distance, Zuko was sure Katara had tricked him into leaving her alone for the day, but he would be a fire ferret's uncle before he'd let that stop him from doing exactly what he had promised.

The air turned more frigid the higher he climbed, the snow trying its very hardest to numb him into an eternal sleep. If it weren't for the fire burning deep from within him, the mountain would have surely claimed Zuko, the ice and rock becoming an impromptu tomb, forever undisturbed lest the trespasser wish a similar fate. After two agonizing hours, the summit was finally in reach, and Zuko let out a tiny cheer, almost losing his balance and toppling all the way back down the mountain.

It was an interesting feeling, being burned by air colder than any ice Katara had ever thrown at him. Zuko hadn't known before today that ice could be deadly in just the same way as fire could. It was invigorating. Though Zuko carried a torch for Katara, there had always been a small part of him that doubted they could come of anything. A firebender and a waterbender? Unheard of! But now, experiencing a familiarity in the burning ice, realizing how it complemented his fire, Zuko felt like a king. Somehow, some way, Katara would be his, and they would reign magnificent.

The ice flower Katara had requested was not difficult to find. In fact, the enchanting crystalline flowers littered the peak of the mountain—a forgotten race, thriving where no one dared to conquer. He tried pulling at one, but the stem was unbreakable. He tried melting it, but again, no luck. Just how was he supposed to get the flower to Katara if the stubborn thing didn't wish to be taken? Zuko tried everything he could thing of with no success, finally losing his temper with a mighty blaze. The flower did not melt.

"Are you kidding me?" yelled Zuko, kicking a charred clump of dirt.

Zuko paused, suddenly aware of his actions. He had kicked dirt. Dirt he had unfrozen with his blast. Dirt that could now be dug up around the root of the flower. A triumphant whoop left Zuko's lungs as he buried his hands in the Earth, and in no time at all, he had the flower firmly in his grasp.

With the flower strapped to his pack and a smile plastered on his face, Zuko made his way down the side of the mountain, visions of his upcoming reunion with Katara playing on repeat in his mind. He would march right on up to her, present the flower, and she would throw her arms around him in gratitude. If only Zuko's life ever went so smoothly….

As he neared the pass on which the village was nestled, a mere thirty feet below him, Zuko felt a jerking tug at his backpack. He'd heard the lizardhalk's hissing shriek several minutes before, and had foolishly thought nothing of it. Now he payed for that mistake with a painful tumble down the side of the mountain, using a blast of fire to counteract gravity with propulsion to save him a from the final impact.

He took off after the beast, barely keeping up with its speed and agility. They raced through the pass, bouncing off the sides of the mountain and kicking snow up behind them. As he neared town, people and buildings added themselves to the obstacles of nature. Though Zuko avoided them as best he could, he would not, under any circumstances, let that lizardhalk get away with his prize. Just as he was closing in on the beast a cart cut into his path and Zuko blasted it out of his way.

The smell of roasting vegetables filled the air, as well as a cry of desperation from the vendor, "Not my cabbages!"

Zuko would have to remember to apologize.

One more blast, one more dig into the soft ground, and Zuko launched into the air tackling the bird and detaching it from the flower. He rolled several times and came to a stop at someone's feet. Upon looking up, Zuko blushed.

Katara's eyes traveled the length of Zuko's disheveled appearance, a host of emotions from shocked and awed to amused and perturbed dancing behind their blue. He thrust the flower into the air, an offering, a hopeful request for friendship. For a moment, Zuko thought Katara might have been messing with him and didn't want the flower at all, she was so still. But then she lifted a decorative bottle from a pocket in her coat.

"I'll need your help," she said, suddenly unsure of herself.

"Anything," said Zuko.

She cupped each of his hands and moved them one at a time to the bloom of the flower, so that it was completely covered. "I need you to get it as hot as you can," she said.

Zuko was skeptical. He had already blasted the flower. Nothing had happened. But with Katara standing over him, her eyes gently pleading and not hateful, he could not find his voice to tell her. He took the proper stance, localizing the fire burning within him to his hands. As he did so, he watched the grace of Katara's waterbending, and drop by drop the blossom melted into the bottle.

"It takes both bending," Katara said. "Water and fire working together. The gift it yields is a strengthening potion, of sorts. It doesn't last long, but it gives the taker a clearer mind and a sounder body."

"Amazing."

"It is," Katara agreed, not realizing Zuko was talking about her.

When the flower was gone and the roots fell to the ground and shattered, Zuko held his breath. He half expected Katara to throw out a barb and turn on her heel. She took her time screwing the cap of her bottle and replacing it in her pocket. Zuko's face was going to turn blue from lack of air. And then she smiled. At him. Looking directly into his eyes. He let out his breath and smiled back. This feeling, one of mutual respect, of possibilities, was nothing compared to what he had felt on top of the mountain. Zuko vowed to one day feel this all the time, Katara at his side.

* * *

**A/N:** There you have it! The prompt this week was to use these words at least once in the chapter, in no particular order: Summit, Cabbage, Tomb, King. I'm a big fan of constructive criticism and I know this chapter was verging on grimace-worthy, so any feedback is greatly appreciated. Unless you like it, haha. If you liked it, THANK YOU. And thanks all for reading!


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